


In the Lightning Field of Love

by Thats_Amore



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Armistice of Cassibile, Bombings, Death, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Forbidden Love, Hetalia Countries Using Human Names, Historical Hetalia, Implied/Referenced Violence, M/M, Minor Injuries, Moral Ambiguity, Nationverse, Operation Husky, POV America (Hetalia), Period-Typical Racism, Pining, War, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-26
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-13 14:22:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29652642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thats_Amore/pseuds/Thats_Amore
Summary: After they win their campaign in North Africa, the Allies' next mission is to capture Sicily. For the first time, America will be fighting on Romano's home turf, and his duties as a soldier and a nation will come into conflict with his feelings for Savino as a person.
Relationships: America & Canada (Hetalia), America & England (Hetalia), America/South Italy (Hetalia)
Kudos: 16
Collections: Historical Hetalia Week (February 2021)





	In the Lightning Field of Love

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Day 5 of Historical Hetalia Week on Tumblr. A list of sources I used for this fic can be found [here](https://docs.google.com/document/d/1LmvbMCmAWk7-yqD1S_-pd49nICjPRrd-VxJOYgZTmv0).
> 
> I debated between a T and M rating for this story, but decided to cautiously give it an M rating since it is a serious fic about WWII. The period-typical racism in the tags is briefly referenced and doesn't come from any of the canon characters.
> 
> Title from the song "Lightning Fields" by The Killers.

_Tunisia, July 1943_

One of the best parts of this war, America thought, was getting to hang out with Little Spotty. The friendly Dalmatian’s tail thumped against the pavement as America scratched his head and skimmed through his copy of the “Soldier’s Guide to Sicily.”

America rolled his eyes when he came to the section describing the native population, which was probably the least useful part of this guide. Much of it was filled with uninformed, negative stereotypes. “Whatever English person wrote this should’ve let me do it instead,” America muttered. “I obviously know Romano a lot better than this guy does.” America doubted that the person or committee of people who wrote this book had even met a Sicilian once in their entire lives.

A soft chuckle made America glance up towards Canada and England, who were moving to sit down next to him. “I think your view of Romano might be a little too complimentary to get published in that guide, Al,” Canada teased lightly.

Alfred only made a grunt of acknowledgment and flipped to the back of the guide. He felt a tug at his heart as he gazed at the photographs of cities, mountains, plains, and ancient Roman ruins. Sicily looked like a nice place to visit, and America idly wished he could just go on vacation and accidentally on purpose run into Romano instead of fighting a war there. Of course, he couldn’t say that to either his brother or the friend that used to be like an older brother/dad to him. That would only confirm the “complimentary” nature of the things Canada suspected America would have written about Romano and his people if he’d been the person in charge of things like the soldier’s guide.

England patted him on the shoulder. “So, are you prepared for the next few days, lad?”

America sighed and closed his book. “About as prepared as I’ll ever be.” Little Spotty nudged at his hand with his wet nose, and America grinned and started petting him again.

“I still don’t understand why you’d volunteer to be a paratrooper. Jumping out a bloody aeroplane sounds absolutely insane to me.”

“I think you meant cool and heroic, old man. I’m gonna look so badass parachuting in like that.”

Canada laughed. “You chose your mission based on how badass it would make you look?”

America huffed. “Not just that. I mean, if my guys can do it, I don’t see why I shouldn’t.”

“Just try not to get yourself killed out there,” England said. “The fate of the free world is depending on us.”

“I know, Artie. I know.” England’s words were a sobering reminder that this wasn’t just a game. America’s troops were depending on him, and, to a degree, so were England’s and Canada’s. It would be a lot easier to liberate France and the others under Nazi control if they could get Italy out of the war first. That was the whole point of this strategy, to make the Axis more vulnerable by attacking the “soft underbelly” of Europe. Privately, America had his doubts, not that they wouldn’t win or succeed in their mission, but that Romano and his brother were really the “soft underbelly” Churchill had predicted they would be. Romano might not have the forces, the equipment, or the strength to beat him, but America knew him well enough to know he shouldn’t be underestimated. He could be tough when the situation called for it, and as much as America had wanted to see Romano for the past decade, to talk to him for more than a few minutes, to just give his former housemate a goddamn hug, he wasn’t looking forward to encountering him on a battlefield. When it came down to it, America didn’t know if he’d have the resolve to hurt someone he still cared about, even if they were supposed to be sworn enemies.

America was lost in thought, so much so that Canada had to tap him on the shoulder before he noticed that England and Canada were leaving. England and Canada were going to be part of the ground forces, so they had to leave on boats before America did. America would be flying in from Tunisia on the night of the invasion.

As America said goodbye to both of them, he noticed a brief, subtle look of sympathy in Matthew’s eyes, which was absolutely ridiculous. Alfred was _fine_. He didn’t need anyone’s sympathy. He could totally handle having to fight a war against Romano on his own turf.

After Canada and England left, Lieutenant General Gavin came up to America and told him that his break time was up and that he and the other members of the 82nd Airborne were to practice some last-minute drills in preparation for Operation Husky. America made sure another soldier was watching Little Spotty, and then he followed his commanding officer and tried to put all stray thoughts of Romano, along with any misgivings about fighting against him, out of his mind. America had a job to do, and he couldn’t afford to let himself get distracted.

* * *

The airborne jump into Sicily did not go at all according to plan. On July 9, 1943, the Mediterranean Sea, which had been relatively calm up until that point, suddenly kicked into high gear with wind speeds around 30 miles per hour. America and the other airborne troops had trained for parachute jumps at wind speeds half that, but it was too late to turn back now. This operation that had been meticulously planned months ago. America and the other members of the 505th regiment would jump in right before midnight as scheduled. As the sun was setting over Tunisia, America crammed himself into an airplane with several other paratroopers and naively hoped for the best.

The pilot carrying America along with his fellow paratroopers did his best, but flying under a dim quarter moon with the turbulent sea tossing water up onto his windshield, under high wind conditions, and with a complicated flight pattern made things difficult for him, and he missed multiple checkpoints. By the time they got closer to Sicily, the haze, dust, and fire caused by pre-invasion air attacks made it nearly impossible for him to see the ground below him. At this point, the paratroopers would be extremely unlikely to hit their designated drop zone. They would be lucky enough to hit the ground at all.

America was the first to jump out of his airplane. He crashed headfirst into the stone wall of an old building and knocked himself unconscious before he hit the ground. Hardly an auspicious beginning to his mission here in Sicily, and America had to reluctantly concede that England had been right after all. Jumping out of an airplane was “bloody insane,” and he didn’t look nearly as badass or heroic as he had hoped.

When Alfred came to, he heard the sound of gunfire going off in the distance and felt someone shaking his right shoulder urgently. Automatically, he checked to make sure Texas was still on his face (somehow it was, and it had even managed to stay intact, thank God) and then America rolled over into a crouched position to face whoever was touching him. He hoped like hell it wasn’t an enemy soldier.

Luckily for him, it was just Dave, one of the paratroopers who had been sitting next to him on the plane. “You look like you took a pretty hard hit, Jones. You’ll have a huge bump on your noggin in the next few hours.”

“Well at least I’m still alive.” America straightened himself to a standing position and ignored the soreness radiating throughout his entire body, which was annoying but minor compared to what he would have suffered if he were human. After checking that he had all his supplies still with him, he turned to walk in what he hoped was a westerly direction. America had no real idea where he was, but he knew he had been blown off course far to the east of where he was actually supposed to be.

Dave walked alongside him. “Hey, Al, you have any idea where we are?”

Alfred shook his head and laughed mirthlessly. “Nowhere near Piano Lupo, that’s for damn sure.” He warily cast his gaze around to make sure they didn’t run into enemy troops or, even worse, tanks. The two of them really weren’t prepared to face off a well-armed enemy regiment all by themselves. America was hoping they’d be able to link up with some other paratroopers soon.

“You think we’re even in Sicily?” Dave wondered. “As far off course as we got, I wouldn’t be surprised if we ended up on the mainland. Hell, we might even be in the Balkans.”

America didn’t immediately answer Dave’s question. They were coming upon a grove of trees (possibly olive trees, but America couldn’t really tell in the darkness), and Alfred knew there was one way to identify where he was. It was a bit mystical, and it relied on some unique nation abilities he couldn’t explain to a fellow soldier, but it was more reliable than any human compass or map.

Alfred stopped, placed his palm on the rough tree bark, and closed his eyes to focus all of his energy. It didn’t happen instantly, the way it would have with Canada, but within a few seconds, a flood of memories came back to him. Romano showing up on his doorstep with a couple of suitcases, asking for a job to do. That talk they’d had about a week after he’d started living there, when Romano unexpectedly opened up to him, telling him about all the problems he’d had after the Risorgimento and industrialization that had led him to America’s house. A voice softly singing songs in Neapolitan as he prepared meals in the kitchen or worked on the herb and tomato garden he’d planted in America’s backyard. Vinny’s warmth pressed up against his side as they drunkenly made their way home from the speakeasy, and the dizzying, citrus-laced scent of his cologne. The undercurrent of affection in warm hazel eyes when Savino began to refer to him as _Fredo_ instead of _America_. The feeling of warm, slender arms around him and the soft brush of lips against his cheek the day Savino moved out of his home, back to Italy once America was too poor and too broken by the Great Depression to take care of him or Lithuania anymore regardless of how much he wanted his friends to stay. Alfred’s heartbeat picked up a little, and tears clogged his throat. Vinny’s heart and soul, his very presence, were all over this place, and God, Alfred had missed him.

“Al? Are you okay?”

Alfred took a deep breath and blinked the tears out of his eyes. “I’m fine. I’m pretty sure we’re in Sicily, or at least somewhere in South Italy. We’re definitely not in the Balkans.”

“If you say so.” Dave sounded skeptical, and Alfred couldn’t exactly blame him.

Alfred cleared his throat and started to walk through the grove of trees. “Let’s just try to find some other paratroopers. Then, we’ll figure out where to go from there.”

Dave made a noise of agreement, and they continued to carefully make their way through the trees, carefully scanning for enemy soldiers and any paratroopers who could help them figure out how to do something constructive where they were, even if Piano Lupo would be too far away for them to secure before dawn.

* * *

Over the next few hours, Alfred and Dave managed to link up with some other paratroopers, and eventually, they were even able to join with Lieutenant General Gavin. They cut communication lines, attacked pillboxes, and generally created as much havoc as they could to confuse the enemy and to help the other Allied troops who would be landing later. Gavin commanded a group of about 250 men at Biazza Ridge, and miraculously, they managed to hold off an entire German armed column with Tiger tanks long enough for additional American forces and, importantly, _tanks_ to arrive and help them secure the vital area. Despite America’s chaotic entry into Sicily, the initial operations went well, and in three days, American, British, and Canadian forces had secured the beaches and were prepared to march inland.

A couple of days after the beaches had been secured, one of England’s generals, General Montgomery, had changed the marching orders without informing his superiors or his American counterparts. American forces were supposed to advance up Highway 124, but then the highway was unexpectedly given to the British, and American forces were supposed to take an even more subordinate role in the campaign than had originally been planned. Now, instead of being able to march up towards Messina, the main objective, with England and his army, America and his troops would restricted to protecting the British army’s left flank. America felt irritated and keenly insulted by the new orders, but he didn’t complain to anyone, especially not England. Starting an argument in the middle of a war zone hardly seemed like a smart thing to do.

In addition to fighting battles, America spent much of his time translating between Italian or Sicilian and English, utilizing the skills he’d picked up from his Italian immigrants, including Romano, who had lived with him. America sometimes felt conflicted about using something he’d learned thanks to Romano and his people in a military invasion, but he also felt that his ability to communicate with POWs and civilians did some good. When he’d first entered Sicily, many of the civilians had been terrified of him, apparently because of some German propaganda claiming that the American paratroopers were hardened criminals who had become paratroopers in exchange for their freedom. Speaking their language was one small way Alfred could show Romano’s people that he wasn’t a monster. Hopefully someday, if he could ever talk to Savino, America could show that to him too.

America sensed Romano around him frequently, in the quieter moments when he wasn’t in the middle of a battle that required his full attention. It seemed to be more than just the fact that he was on Romano’s land, that the civilians and many of the soldiers on the opposite side were Romano’s people. It felt similar to those days that no longer existed, days when after a meeting with government officials or a trip to deal with some issue in another part of the country, America had someone to come home to. As the days progressed, America became more and more convinced that Romano was actually here, somewhere on the island, even if he hadn’t spotted Romano on the front lines, at least not yet.

The idea of his old (hopefully not former) friend being somewhere in Sicily was circling in the back of Alfred’s mind as he attended a joint strategy session held on the sixteenth day of July, only a week after the first Allied troops landed on Sicily. England, Canada, and America were all there, but they mostly stayed silent while military officials from their countries discussed next steps among themselves.

After the humans left the room, America, Canada, and England remained. Talk turned to the general progress of the campaign, and England and Canada agreed that it was going about as well as could be expected. The fiercest fighting seemed to come from the better armed German troops, and the Italians seemed to be low on both morale and weaponry. This campaign might result in the Italian surrender that the Allied leaders had been hoping for. If not that, it would at least give the Allies important airfields and greatly help their position in the Mediterranean.

“Al, you’ve been kind of quiet,” Mattie said. “What do you think?”

Alfred sighed. “I think… I think Romano’s here. Somewhere on Sicily.”

England’s massive eyebrows shifted up a little on his forehead. “What makes you say that? Have you seen him on the battlefield?”

America shook his head. “No. But it’s like, he’s _here_ , you know? I can feel it.” His hand rose, without conscious intent, to gesture at his heart. America quickly dropped it back down to the table.

Canada looked concerned. “You sure it’s not just a familiarity thing?”

“I don’t think that’s it. I can sense the proximity, just like I could when he lived with me.”

England and Canada paused to consider what America had said. In the silence, America’s gaze fell down to the walnut wood grain of the table, a color that was strangely similar to Romano’s hair. The oddest things could remind America of Romano lately.

Maybe that was what made America start to speak, and to say something he probably shouldn’t have. “I wish I could just talk to Vinny alone, without having to deal with all the government stuff. He’s a reasonable guy, and I’m sure he can see what this war is doing to his people, not to mention everybody else. If it were up to him, he’d probably surrender.” Alfred bit his lip before he could admit something worse, that he _missed_ Savino, and that he wanted to be his friend again more than he’d ever wanted anything. The way America missed Romano had nothing to do with who he they were as nations, and everything to do with who they were as people.

“Unfortunately, it’s not really up to him,” Canada said quietly. He sounded hesitant, like there was something he wanted to say, but he was holding back, possibly for America’s sake. “Decisions like that aren’t even up to us, and our governments are democracies. Romano probably gets a lot less say in policy than we do.”

“Yeah, of course. You’re right, Mattie. But I just—”

“You just want to talk to him for no real reason, because you have no real plan,” England cut in. His voice was harsh, and America just knew if he looked up that Arthur would be glaring at him in disappointment. That was precisely why America couldn’t look up at him. “I cannot begin to tell you how daft that is.”

“It’s not ‘daft,’ England. I know Romano better than anyone here, and I think he’d be willing to listen to me.”

“I doubt you know who he is now. In case you’ve forgotten, you’re at _war_ with him, America.”

“I didn’t forget that! How could I forget that? But it’s only been thirteen years since I lived with Vinny, and he was my friend! People can’t change that fast. They can’t.” America looked up at England, and just like he had expected, he saw disappointment. But he also saw a touch of pity.

England sighed, and he sounded utterly exhausted. For once, he looked and sounded exactly as old as he was. “Alfred, someday, when you’re as old as I am, you’ll learn that people _can_ change in drastic ways, even when you don’t want them to. And you’ll learn that, as a country, you can’t afford to let personal feelings cloud your judgment.”

“Personal feelings? I don’t have _personal feelings_ for Romano! I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about!” Alfred could feel beads of sweat trickling down his forehead, and not just because he was in a tent in the middle of July on a hot Mediterranean island. America was lying, and he knew that he was lying. Alfred might not have known what love was, but he knew that what he had felt for Romano when they lived together couldn’t always be classified as normal friendship feelings. And he knew that those feelings hadn’t disappeared just because Romano had moved out. Savino’s absence had left an ache of loneliness at the center of him that Alfred had never been able to overcome.

England stared at America in disbelief, and now Canada was the one who seemed to pity him. “Alfred,” England said dryly. “Really.”

It was too much for America to take. He stood up and slammed his hands on the table. “Look, old man. I’m not a stupid, naive child, and I haven’t been for a long time! I fought a war against you, remember? If I can fight a war against the person who raised me, I can fight a war against Savi too. I won’t let any _personal_ _feelings_ cloud my _judgment._ ”

America caught a flash of pain in England’s eyes, but he refused to let himself feel guilty about that. A tiny, vicious part of him was glad. He was glad to know he’d hurt England by bringing up the Revolutionary War, just like England had hurt him by bringing up his complicated, unresolved feelings for Romano. He turned and stomped out of the tent, hastily shoving open the tent flap before he started heading back towards his own tent.

Canada trotted after him. “That was a low blow,” Canada whispered disapprovingly. “You know how Arthur gets about the Revolutionary War. He still coughs up blood every fourth of July.”

“He started it,” America snarled. “England shouldn’t dish it out if he can’t take it.”

“Be honest, Al. Did you get mad at England because he’s wrong or because he’s right?”

America didn’t answer his brother. He continued to stew in his pain and anger, and he walked faster. Matthew made no attempt to catch up with him. America was still fuming by the time he entered his private tent, and he paced around the small area like a caged animal. Maybe England was right. Maybe he didn’t know how to be objective when it came to Romano. But it was unfair of England to bring up feelings America had never asked for, that were so private he hadn’t even discussed them with his own twin. America would ignore his annoyance with England tomorrow because he didn’t have another choice. He couldn’t let petty squabbles interfere with the important work they had to accomplish. But it would take a while for America to forgive him.

* * *

Shortly after America’s disastrous argument with England, America and the rest of the 82nd Airborne were organized into a new Provisional Corps and assigned a new task of driving to the west to capture Palermo. On the morning of July 19, America and his fellow soldiers began their more than 100-mile journey towards Sicily’s capital. The advance was relatively easy compared to the fighting America had already seen. The troops had to contend with minefields they needed to clear, scattered Italian garrisons, and enemy soldiers who surrendered rather quickly. The city of Palermo surrendered before the Americans could even get there. On the evening of July 22, America and his troops marched through the city, encountering civilians waving white flags and standing on the sidewalks as if they were watching a parade. General Keyes rode into the city with an Italian general who had surrendered to him.

After Palermo, the next step was to capture some smaller cities on the northwest coast of Sicily. The next day, America and the rest of the 505th regiment rode by truck to Trapani, the city they were supposed to secure. All along the route west of Santa Ninfa, America and his fellow paratroopers were welcomed by the local population, and even given fruits, bread, and chocolate by people who really couldn’t afford to give what little they had. Maybe they really did see the Americans as a liberating force, which is how America wanted them to be seen. America did everything in his power to be a hero, and he wanted to be seen that way by everyone, even the people whose cities he occupied. More realistically, the Sicilians were simply sick of the war and hoping this could be the end, for them at least. Either way, America held onto the gifts and planned to hand them off to locals who needed them far more than he did at the nearest opportunity.

On the eastern outskirts of Trapani, they encountered a roadblock and an Italian force in the hills laying down artillery fire. But after a battle of approximately three hours, the road block was cleared and the Italians surrendered. America was able to enter the city of Trapani that night. Since he had no other mission that day, he decided to take a stroll along the bombed-out docks and see if he could give some of the food he had received from the Sicilians earlier that day to any needy civilians.

As he walked through the city, humming the melody of a song Romano had frequently sung while he lived with him, America had a chance to reflect on the past several days. Other than a couple of brief exchanges, America hadn’t really had a chance to talk with England or Canada before he started going west with the other paratroopers, and he hadn’t had a chance to make things right with England. Alfred knew he should probably apologize at some point for bringing up a sensitive subject, but Arthur needed to apologize too. England wasn’t his biological father, but he had passed on many traits to America, and prominent among them was stubbornness. Neither one of them was likely to give in, and eventually they’d just have to move past the argument without ever discussing why America had lashed out at England in the first place. Which was just fine with America. He didn’t want to discuss his “personal feelings” with England. It had been hard enough to carry them inside him for the past couple of weeks.

Everything about this place reminded him of Romano, and as he had been advancing west with his army, he had been able to feel Romano’s presence even more strongly than before. Romano was nearby, and America was getting closer to him with every battle. In fact, America wouldn’t be surprised if he turned the corner and happened to bump into Romano right now.

Suddenly, America’s senses went into high alert. He could smell the scent of Macedonia cigarette smoke, which was different enough from the Lucky Strikes in his own pockets and other American brands that America could distinguish between them. That alone wasn’t enough to raise suspicion, since the Italian civilians he had encountered often smoked that brand with their limited tobacco rations. But something about that scent hypnotized Alfred and made him start to walk away from the docks, towards a narrow alley between two buildings that miraculously hadn’t been destroyed by Allied bombs. And as he crept closer to the edge of that tiny, isolated alley in Trapani, he finally saw Savino.

Savino was leaning against a brick wall and puffing on a cigarette. He wore an Italian military uniform and had an M-91, the standard Italian army rifle, strapped to his shoulder, but he was clearly taking a break and not preparing for combat. He had caught Vinny in an unguarded moment, much like the unguarded moments he had witnessed so many times back when he and Romano lived in the same house and weren’t at war with each other. If not for their locations and Romano’s military attire, America could have deluded himself that nothing had changed at all since the 1920s. Romano was just standing there smoking, unaware of his presence, but he was so beautiful that Alfred nearly wept from longing.

Alfred slowly started to advance into the alley. “Vinny,” he said, voice choked with emotion. “I was hoping I’d find you.”

Romano’s eyes widened when he saw America entering the alley, and his cigarette fell to the ground. Recovering quickly, he stomped out the cigarette with his boost and swiveled around to face America, raising his weapon at the same time. “Stay back, asshole, or I will shoot you.”

America had a gun too, but instead of pointing it at Romano, he lifted his hands in the universal gesture of peace and walked closer to him. “I didn’t come here to hurt you. I just want to talk.”

“Talk?! You want to fucking talk to me?!” Savino’s rifle trembled in his hands, like he wasn’t strong enough to hold it (though America doubted that was truly the case). But as he got closer, America could see there were dark circles under Vinny’s eyes and a couple of scrapes near his chin. Savino’s expression didn’t seem angry, but rather afraid. He was trying to act tough, just like he had that first week he lived with America, when instead of admitting all the problems he’d had as a little kid cleaning Spain’s house due to childhood chorea, he’d tried to convince America that he’d turned cattivo and was plotting against him. It was a thin ruse back then, and America didn’t believe it now, not after he’d seen how Romano acted when he was scared. The fact that someone he had considered a friend, that he had possibly even loved, was so terrified of his presence, broke America’s heart, but he tried to console himself with the idea that this could be fixed. Romano was scared, but he didn’t necessarily loathe him.

“I just want to talk to you,” America repeated calmly. “It would be a lot easier if you weren’t pointing a gun at me, you know.”

Romano finally lowered his weapon and slumped against the brick wall in defeat. “You’re so stupid, America. You still think we’re friends, don’t you?”

America was painfully reminded of England’s words. _In case you’ve forgotten, you’re at war with him, America_. He swallowed heavily and tried to reply to Romano in a way that wouldn’t make him sound _stupid_. “Maybe we could be, someday. After this war is over.”

Savino had bent his head to stare down at the ground, but America was close enough to catch the sheen of tears as it formed in his eyes. “You’ve been bombing me non-stop, bombing so many of my cities. You just started bombing Rome, and not all of your bombs end up hitting military targets. Do you know what that does to a country, asshole?”

America was starting to cry too. He could only imagine how awful Romano must feel right now. He’d seen England suffering during the Blitz, when he’d snuck over to see him even though he wasn’t in the war yet because he was so goddamn worried about his former guardian. He’d felt the pain of a bombing attack during Pearl Harbor. The last thing he’d ever wanted to do was hurt Romano that way, but he had, even if he hadn’t been the one in charge of making those decisions or dropping those bombs.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t want any of this. I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“I didn’t want this either! You think I wanted to waste so many of my people’s lives siding with the potato bastard?! All this war has done has made things harder for them! I am so goddamn sick of this shit!”

Romano was enraged, but it didn’t seem to be directed at him. Alfred figured it would be safe to rub Romano’s shoulder, so he did. “I know,” he murmured, trying to soothe Savino as best he could.

“I hate my fucking government!” Romano ranted. “All they do is break promises, drag my people into destructive wars, and terrify the crap out of me and my little brother! And then, to top it off, Il Duce sends me down here with a gun to shoot you!”

America tried to suppress a grin at Romano’s defiance but didn’t entirely succeed. “I take it you don’t do everything il Duce tells you to.”

Romano released a loud, annoyed huff of air. “Hardly. But the bastard expects me to jump off a cliff just because he said so. Tell me, if your president ordered you to jump off a cliff, you wouldn’t do that, would you?”

“Well, I did jump out of an airplane to get here, but that was my idea,” America admitted. “I thought parachuting in would look cool and heroic, but then I smacked my face into a stone wall before I could hit the ground. Not exactly my finest hour.”

Savino chuckled. Afterwards, the faint ghost of a smile lingered on his lips. “You’re so stupid, Fredo. I missed that.”

“I missed you too. I missed everything about you.” How was he supposed to fight Romano when just looking into his eyes made him feel warm and dizzy? How was he supposed to think of Savino as the enemy when all Alfred wanted was take him some place warm and safe and cover every square inch of his face in kisses? America didn’t know.

Savino’s cheeks quickly became dusted with red. “Quit looking at me like that. It makes it hard for me to hate you like I’m supposed to.”

“You know something, Vinny? I never hated you. Not even when you were pointing your gun at me a couple minutes ago.” America knew he couldn’t kiss Romano like his heart was screaming at him to. He hadn’t kissed Romano when he might’ve had the chance fifteen years ago, so he definitely couldn’t kiss him now. But he thought a hug wouldn’t be entirely out of the question. He gathered Romano into his arms, and surprisingly Savino didn’t protest or push him away. He sighed, and a couple seconds later, his arms were winding around Alfred to return the embrace.

“If it were up to me, I’d surrender. I don’t even want to fight this war, and I knew I’d lose as soon as you came over here with your bright blue eyes spouting your usual idealistic bullshit about being a hero.”

Alfred laughed. “Not sure what my eyes have to do with it, Little Italy.”

Savino didn’t answer, only burrowed his head deeper into Alfred’s shoulder, but he didn’t need to. Alfred understood. It was hard to hate Savino when he looked directly into his warm, yet haunted hazel eyes. Impossible when he fit so perfectly into his arms and when he didn’t smell like the cologne he wore a long time ago, but smelled like this island and places Alfred had never seen. Of the earth and the sea, lemons, vineyards, olive trees, and a hundred things America couldn’t distinguish right that second. His Little Italy, and America held onto him as tightly as he could for as long as he could. He knew he’d have to let go eventually, but he wasn’t looking forward to it.

“You’re gonna have to take me in as a prisoner after you let go, aren’t you, America?”

America sighed. “Normally I would, but maybe I can get away with breaking the rules just this once.” He didn’t want to hold Vinny captive, and Vinny didn’t seem like he was going to be a threat to him, Canada, or England.

Romano’s arms slackened and then fell away from him, and America reluctantly stepped out of the hug. He patted around his pockets until he felt the chocolate he had saved earlier. “Here. Someone gave this to me earlier, but I think you could use it more than me.”

Romano took the chocolate bar from him and snorted when he saw the label. “This is Italian military chocolate.”

“I’ve got American military chocolate too, if you’d rather have that.”

Savino shook his head. “This is fine. I guess… since we’re giving each other stuff, I ought to give you something.” Romano slowly removed his rifle from his strap and placed it in America’s hands. “Here you go, idiota.”

“You’re giving me your gun?”

“You could get in a lot of trouble if anyone found out you let me go. Right now, I’m still an enemy combatant. You have no reason to trust that I won’t attack you later. I’m disarming myself so you won’t have to worry about that.”

“That’s… thank you, Vinny.”

Romano looked away from him. “You don’t have to thank me, bastard. I came here to protect as many civilians as I could. I don’t need a gun to do that.”

In light of Romano’s sacrifice, America decided that a chocolate bar wasn’t enough. He took out his pack of Lucky Strikes and handed it over. “You can have this too. Consider it payment for the cigarette I made you snuff out earlier.”

“Grazie. Now get out of here before someone sees you being too fucking nice to me.”

America smiled weakly at his old friend before he turned to leave the isolated alley. Luckily, he didn’t see any of his fellow soldiers around, and they hadn’t been spotted by anyone who could get America in trouble for being too nice to Romano. America returned to his base camp, and when he turned Romano’s gun over, he claimed he had found the rifle on the street and speculated that it may have been dropped by an Italian soldier fleeing before the American forces arrived. Alfred’s superiors believed his story, and that night he didn’t suffer from troubled sleep. He didn’t feel guilty for letting Romano go, but he doubted that he could ever tell England about how he had found Romano and the conversation they had exchanged. Maybe he could tell Canada someday, decades after they had hopefully won this war and he was allowed to treat Romano as a friend.

* * *

The next day, America was reassigned to another division of the U.S. Army. His fellow paratroopers were taking over the duty of occupation in Palermo and nearby cities they had captured, but America himself was considered too vital a military asset to not use on the battlefield. He would now be with the 1st division, heading east along Highway 120 to help England’s forces capture Messina, the port that was so critical since it was only two miles away from the Italian mainland.

On the 25th day of July, only two days after America spoke to Romano in Trapani, Mussolini was ousted from the Italian government and placed under arrest. America heard the news of course, and part of him was hopeful that this would lead to peace sooner rather than later. He didn’t want to fight against Romano any longer than he had to. But the Italian government did not surrender instantly to the Allies, so America, England, and Canada had to continue to fight in Sicily. On the frontlines, not much had changed.

The most frustrating battle America faced with the 1st division, by far, was the Battle of Troina. It was a long, protracted fight in the early August heat, and the rocky, mountainous terrain favored the German and Italian defenders. Every time the Americans managed to gain some small advantage, they were pushed back and had to start all over again. By the end, they only won by exhausting the enemy forces to the point of forcing them to finally retreat after a week. The Americans had barely outlasted their adversaries and were even beginning to run short on food.

But all of that was not remotely as depressing as what America saw on August 6, when he and the other members of the 1st division walked through the wreckage that had once been a town. Most of the residents had fled by the time he arrived, and it was no wonder. All around him, buildings were demolished and water mains were broken. Dead bodies lay on the streets, both civilians and soldiers. America breathed in plaster dust and the stench of decay.

Canada, who had been fighting nearby but not in the same battle as America, walked up to America while he was standing in a church that had probably existed longer than he’d even been alive, staring at a giant, unexploded, aerial bomb that lay right where people had once gathered for worship services. They had destroyed a church, for fuck’s sake. Maybe it hadn’t been intentional, but he wouldn’t blame Savino for wanting him dead after Americans had done _this_ to him.

Alfred knew his brother better than anyone else, so he didn’t need to turn his head to know who had placed a hand on his shoulder. “Alfred…”

“Am I the good guy, Mattie? Because this isn’t what a good guy does! I wanna be the hero, but I don’t know if I can be after this!” He was trying to keep his upper lip stiff like England would, but tears were fogging up his glasses. When he turned to face Matthew, he was sad and much blurrier than normal.

“You want to be the hero. You try your absolute best every single day to be the hero. I think that has to count for something.”

“All I do is hurt him. I’m so sick of hurting him.” Alfred didn’t have to say who he was referring to. Matthew knew, and he pulled America into a hug and let him sob brokenly into his hair.

“It’s okay. Romano’s government is gonna surrender soon, and then you’ll be able to talk to him again. He’ll understand you didn’t mean to hurt him.”

“Even if we have to invade the mainland?” That was the projected plan, once Operation Husky was finished.

“He’s a nation too,” Canada told him. “He knows that none of this is in your control. Being on opposite sides of a war does make things more difficult, but I’m sure he hasn’t forgotten how much you cared about him while you lived together.”

America forced himself to slowly calm down. There were things he couldn’t tell Canada. He couldn’t tell Canada that he had talked to Romano two weeks ago and told him that he didn’t mean to hurt him, but that he wasn’t sure if Romano still believed him after what had happened in Troina. He couldn’t tell him that he had briefly sensed that Romano had been in Troina recently while he was passing through the town his army had pulverized. America couldn’t tell Canada so many things, but Canada seemed to know that England had been right, and that America’s “personal feelings” for Romano overruled anything reasonable or logical in him. And in that bombed-out church, as he waited for his brother to get control of his emotions, Canada didn’t judge him for that.

Eventually, America pulled away and wiped his eyes. “Sorry for getting all blubbery on you, Mattie.”

“It’s okay,” Canada reassured him. “This war is stressful for all of us.”

America nodded in agreement, but as he followed his brother back onto the streets of a ruined Sicilian town, he couldn’t help feeling that Operation Husky was more stressful for Romano than any of the Allies.

* * *

America and his forces continued to head east, and the German divisions along with the depleted Italian forces on the island began to retreat. On the morning of August 17th, America’s army finally captured Messina, but most of the remaining Axis forces had escaped over the strait to the Italian mainland hours before he had arrived. England arrived in Messina not too long after that, and he joined America on the coastline, staring across the sea where they would have to go next.

“You beat me here. I suppose I ought to congratulate you.”

America smirked at his former guardian. “Can’t do it, can you?” He knew England’s pride wouldn’t let him admit that America had bested him.

“It’s not a complete victory,” England said. His gaze was focused on Calabria, which was visible from the spot where they were standing. “We still have difficult work ahead of us.”

America sighed, thinking about Operation Avalanche. “Yeah, I know.” He didn’t want to think about having to invade another place in South Italy, about another operation that would force him into conflict against Romano.

England nudged him, which shoved America out of his grim train of thought. “Still planning to land in Salerno on a parachute?”

America grinned, recognizing England’s teasing as an attempt to put their argument from a month ago behind them. After everything he’d been through since then, America was willing to do that too. “Yeah. Hopefully I’ll actually be conscious when I land this time. That will be a lot more heroic than smacking my head into a wall.” It would certainly be a lot less embarrassing.

England laughed. “You did a good job, America. I think we’ve both earned ourselves a drink.” England patted him on the back and turned to walk away. America quickly fell into step with England, and they walked side by side through the streets of Messina. For now, America basked in his triumph, incomplete as it was.

* * *

That day, over drinks, England casually mentioned that he had never seen Romano on the battlefield during Operation Husky. America lied and said that he hadn’t seen Romano in Sicily either. He claimed that it must have been that thing Canada said, about mistaking the familiarity of being on Romano’s territory for Romano’s actual presence.

“I suppose it was just wishful thinking on your part,” England said, gesturing for the bartender to get him another beer.

America’s smile wobbled while England couldn’t see. “Yep. Wishful thinking.” By the time England looked back at him, America made sure he seemed as calm and collected as ever.

Over the next couple of days, America realized that Romano must have left Sicily at around the same time as the last Italian troops on the island. He no longer felt Savino’s presence as strongly as he had throughout Operation Husky, and it wasn’t because he was busy doing anything. For now, he was left to stay in Sicily and wait for his next orders. England and Canada were in a similar position, but England seemed to be busier than he was. There were rumors going around that Italy’s government was conducting secret diplomatic negotiations with the Allies through England’s government, and England’s random disappearances to speak with officials on the telephone seemed to give credence to those rumors.

On the 30th of August, an American military official took Alfred aside and escorted him to a car where England was already waiting for him. England said he wasn’t sure why he was being escorted either, but the car took them both to Cassibile, where the officials vaguely informed them that an important meeting was scheduled to be held the next day.

At about nine o’clock the next morning, America, who had been doodling a few of his government officials in his usual cartoony style, abruptly gasped and dropped his fountain pen. A black slash mark flew across his page.

“Alfred?” England asked him. “Is something the matter?”

“Don’t worry about it. Nothing’s wrong with me, old man.” To keep up his cover story about never encountering Romano on Sicily, he couldn’t tell England that he sensed Romano’s return. And given the “personal feelings” Arthur had brought up not so long ago, America tried not to let on that his heart was practically hammering out of his chest at the mere thought of seeing Romano again.

When Romano arrived with some Italian officials later that day, he seemed subdued. America noticed that Savino’s left arm was now in a sling, which it hadn’t been when he last saw him in Trapani. But at least the scrapes near his chin had healed.

When discussions started over the terms of Italy’s surrender, America spoke up, completely disregarding the fact that nations weren’t supposed to have much of a say in official meetings like this. “Wait, why isn’t North Italy here? It’s his country too.”

Romano lowered his gaze in a clear effort to avoid meeting his and England’s eyes and hunched in on himself. “The potato bastard’s army has put tons of troops in the area. The Germans are basically occupying Feli, and we haven’t even surrendered to you guys yet. God knows what they’re gonna do to him once we get this shit signed.”

As an Italian official used Romano’s statement as a launching point to begin explaining how precarious the Italian government’s position was right now, all America could do was stare at Romano sympathetically from across the table. England not so subtly kicked him in the ankle, and Alfred forced himself to quit being quite so obvious about his concern for Savi.

America’s mood gradually worsened during the conference. The Allied officials and Romano’s government clearly didn’t agree on a number of important issues, like how much protection was needed in Italy’s capital to stave off a German invasion or the timing of the surrender announcement. Their countries might have been getting closer to an armistice, but things didn’t seem to be getting much better for Romano.

During lunch, America, England, and Romano were seated near each other while the officials continued talking. Romano picked at his food with a sullen look on his face, probably because the food had been served by American military brass and didn’t suit his picky taste buds.

“Hey, Vinny,” America said quietly.

Romano sighed. “What do you want, America?”

“I was just wondering what happened to your arm. It must’ve gotten hurt pretty bad for it to need a sling. That doesn’t usually happen to nations.”

England made an irritated noise next to him. “For God’s sake, Alfred, learn some tact.”

“It’s fine. This… uh, this building got bombed, and I was trying to protect a family. A war widow and her three kids. I managed to shove them out of the way just in time, but my arm got crushed under the rubble, so now I have to wear this stupid fucking thing.”

America frowned. “That sucks. I’m sorry, dude.” America could tell that Romano had removed details about the story to protect him. Savino had correctly assumed that Alfred hadn’t told Arthur about how he had spoken to Romano in Trapani. The bombed building had probably been in Sicily, and given the hints of his presence America had noticed after the Battle of Troina, the incident Romano had described had probably occurred there. America wanted to thank Romano for looking out for him, but he couldn’t do that now, not when England was sitting right next to them.

“That sounds bloody awful. It’s a good thing you managed to save that family.” England sighed and began poking at his own food, seeming just as discontent as Romano was. “I wish I’d been able to do something more during the Blitz. The Nazi bombing campaign was relentless.”

Romano laughed weakly. “Good to know what I have to look forward to, eyebrow bastard.”

“But that’s why we’re here, right? To figure out how to help Romano once he surrenders so he doesn’t have to go through the same crap you did, right Artie?” America sent England a significant look that implored him to agree with what America was saying.

England squinted at him skeptically. “That’s one way to look at it, I suppose.”

Romano rolled his eyes. “There’s no way you can stop that, bastard.”

“Of course I can! Because I’m the hero! And this hero is gonna be looking out for you!”

America’s overexuberant volume managed to attract attention from all the government officials at the table, who paused in the middle of their conversation. General Castellano muttered something in Italian about America being a walking U.S. Army advertisement, probably because he hadn’t been informed that America could understand Italian pretty well. Alfred sank down in his chair, feeling his face and even the tips of his ears flushing hot from how embarrassed he was.

Savino hid a few chuckles behind his hand. If they hadn’t been in the middle of an important meeting about the fate of his country, he probably would’ve burst into laughter and called Alfred an idiota. Arthur shook his head with an amused smirk and began eating as if nothing unusual had occurred. After an awkward silence, the humans resumed their discussion.

Romano left later that day with his officials, and an armistice hadn’t been signed yet. But he did wave at America with a small smile on his face before he got onto the plane with Castellano and his interpreter, so America counted that as at least a small sign of progress.

* * *

On September 2, Romano returned to Cassibile with the same people who had accompanied him last time, plus a couple of new additions. This time, England wasn’t with America. He, along with Canada, was preparing to launch Operation Baytown on the mainland early the next morning.

There were some delays, apparently because of a miscommunication. General Castellano believed that the Italian government had already accepted the armistice the previous day via a radio message, but the Allies wanted a signed surrender document. When Castellano said he didn’t have the full authority to sign such a document, the Allied officers abruptly left, and they dragged America along with them. America had barely gotten a chance to say hello to Romano before he was forced to ignore him for the next several hours.

It took a long time for Castellano to get permission to sign the surrender document from his government. Alfred didn’t know what the hold- up was, but he was starting to get antsy. He was so close to no longer being officially at war with a friend he felt particularly close, a friend who had lived in his home. America wanted to quit being Romano’s enemy sooner rather than later.

Finally, at 5:15 p.m. the next day, Romano, some Italian officials, some British and American officials, and America were all gathered together in a room. General Castellano signed the surrender document on behalf of the Italian prime minister, and General Smith signed it on behalf of Eisenhower, who had flown in from North Africa to witness the ceremony.

After the humans signed the armistice, a duplicate, secret copy of the armistice was pulled out to be signed by the nations. America signed the document with a large, rapid stroke of his pen, but he made sure to leave enough space for Savino to sign too.

When Savi got the document, he snorted and gave Alfred a teasing grin. “You signed an official treaty with an exclamation point at the end of your name?”

America pouted as the humans in the room laughed at him. “There’s nothing wrong with being enthusiastic, Vinny.”

Luckily, Vinny was right-handed, so he was able to sign the surrender document, even with his left arm still in a sling. The Italian officials left the room after Romano was done, and the Allied generals were too busy talking to each other to notice when America walked around the table to speak to his old friend.

Alfred put an arm around Vinny’s shoulders carefully to avoid aggravating his injury. “So, how does it feel to be on the winning team?” he whispered.

Romano sighed. “Honestly? I’m exhausted. I’m glad we did this, but I’m worried about how the potato bastard’s boss is gonna respond when he finds out. He’ll be _pissed_ , and that guy is fucking scary when he’s pissed.” Romano shivered, and it obviously wasn’t because he was cold. It was barely September. “You really, _really_ don’t want to get on his bad side.”

America grimaced at the thought of Germany’s boss. He wished he was Captain America and could just punch Hitler in the face. With his super strength, a knockout blow from America would have ended that piece of shit a long time ago. Unfortunately, things weren’t that simple.

America glanced around to make sure the Allied generals still weren’t paying too much attention to him and started to lead Romano out of the room. “You remember what I told you the other day? About how I’d look out for you?”

Romano nodded. “Yeah, I remember. You made sure everyone knew what a ‘hero’ you are.” He rolled his eyes, but he didn’t manage to hide his fond smile from America.

“I meant what I said.” They were alone at the moment, so America could pull Romano closer to his side, just like he did back in the old days when they were walking home drunk from a speakeasy with Lithuania. This time, neither of them had been drinking, but Alfred didn’t need alcohol to feel intoxicated. Savino’s presence alone was enough. He had to step carefully to avoid tripping over his own feet. “I’m gonna protect you as much as I can,” America promised. “Hopefully, we’ll be able to free your brother soon, and then I’m gonna protect him too.”

“You’re just full of promises today, aren’t you?”

“Hey, a hero always keeps his word. I don’t break promises I make to my friends.” America paused, recalling what Romano had said to him back in Trapani. “We are friends now, aren’t we?” God, it would kill him if Romano resented him too much to be his friend, if the distance between them had grown to something irreparable, that couldn’t eventually be mended with time.

“I don’t think we ever stopped being friends, Fredo. If we had, we would’ve hurt each other in Trapani instead of hugging in an alleyway.”

“Good. I like being your friend much better than being your enemy.” Part of him desperately wanted to be so much more than Savino’s friend, but he knew that now wasn’t an ideal time for that. Alfred had enough courage to jump out of an airplane with a parachute and hope that he hit the ground and didn’t immediately get shot by an enemy soldier, but telling Savino how he truly felt required an entirely different sort of courage. A courage Alfred wasn’t sure he possessed.

But as Romano mentioned a beach in Cassibile they might be able to go to if their government officials didn’t call them back that evening, America admired the way the sun shining down on both of them made Vinny’s skin glow and silently prayed that he’d be able to get that courage someday.


End file.
